The washer looked like a boiler turned on its side. It was a large metal cylinder about shoulder height. One end had a door. The other end was connected to some machinery.
“Looky here.” He found the stamp.
It had information about the unit; the serial number, the name of the dealer and two phone numbers. One was for sales, the other for parts and service. Betty thanked the janitor for his assistance and wrote the information on a small note pad. Within moments she was headed down a long cinderblock corridor to several empty office spaces in the hospital basement. They’d been phased out during various restructuring initiatives and forgotten about by the administration. Only the girls from the laundry and switchboard knew the extra phone were there. Both teams kept quiet about the oversight, so they could use them for personal calls.
Betty called Buckle’s Industrial Appliances and spoke with a salesman named Kent. He led the conversation. As he collected information he weaved in and out of small talk, and sales pitch. He carefully crafted every idea with subtle selling points floating beneath the surface of the chat.
As they exchanged pleasantries, and a series of preplanned questions, Kent established that she worked for the hospital. This made his wallet throb and he started talking faster. He established the make and model of the equipment she was looking for. Eventually they got to the numbers. It was a Kelvinator 560 Industrial Washer.
Betty asked, "How much is the washer?" and held her breath.
Kent responded. "$298.29, not including shipping or installation."
She exhaled then asked. "How much is shipping?
Kent said. "To the hospital? It would be about 5 bucks."
Betty asked. "How much is the installation?"
Kent said. "Another 7 bucks."
Kent tried to advance the sale. "Would you like me to get an invoice started? We already have all the hospital account information in our records. In fact, we could deliver and install one to you in 2 days."
It was tempting to Betty, $300 may as well have been a million in a world where a loaf of bread cost 8 cents. Since she was fired from Razzles her income dropped to zero. She was living off what remained of her savings and she was still months away from finishing her nursing degree. Until then she was an intern and working for free.
The washer would take a serious bite out of her buying-back-the-farm fund. There was only one place where she knew she could make back that kind of money, Razzles. But after the way she was booted out, there was no way Betty could show her face there again.
Kent interrupted her thoughts. "Hello, hello?"
Betty said. "I’m sorry, I was pulled away from the phone. Don’t do anything for now. I will let you know."
She hung up. She wanted to run out of the hospital, but there was nowhere to go. No one could help her with this decision. She sat alone in the cold room thinking. She couldn’t have everything she wanted so she had to make a choice. She had to decide how important fighting bad-guys was to her.
Two mornings later the Katana clan followed a deliveryman down the stairs of their laundry to the street, where two brand new Kelvinator 560 Industrial Washing Machines were waiting to be installed. Isamu led the deliverymen to the freight elevator in the alley.
Betty watched their reactions through binoculars from a distance. She smiled. She felt like the Japanese Santa Claus. Sure two washers were expensive, but they were worth it. The more free time Isamu had, the faster they could train. The quicker she learned, the sooner she could embark on her mission of revenge.
She watched as Mimi and all the little Katana's held hands and danced around in a ring. Now with two machines to do the bulk of the work, the children wouldn't have to grow up so quickly. She got her way, and everyone else was better off.
Isamu was surprised. In a way he felt tricked, but he would honor his agreement with the determined little white girl.
Before long, Betty was training three nights a week at the Katana's. The floor below their laundry was a garage. The space was dark and empty except for a few bicycles, boxes and a wood burning potbelly stove. Isamu swept an area of the concrete floor clean and laid down a sizable mat woven by his wife. A portion of the space was converted to a private fighting school and Betty never missed a class.
Everything about what she was learning was foreign to her. Each lesson began with exercises and stretching. Then Isamu explained the objectives for the session. Mimi acted as his assistant and translator. Isamu used her as a demonstration subject. He would walk through attacks or defenses with his daughter who played the part of his opponent. They would start slowly then gradually pick up speed. Isamu’s control was so high that no matter how fast he mock-attacked his daughter, she was never struck.